Beneficiary
by cheesecakeplz
Summary: "Bloody hell, they weren't kidding when they said they were gonna cut me." Eames glanced up to the dark-haired gentleman by his side and gave a crooked, tired smirk. "I thought they were kidding." Slight Eames/Arthur.


**Beneficiary  
"**_A doubtful friend is worse than a certain enemy. Let a man be one thing or another, and then we know how to meet him_." -Aesop

**DISCLAIMER**: Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.

* * *

"I'm not going to ask you again, you know. Are you alright?"

No response.

The rain was almost spilling over the gutter grates now, creating a thin film of murky water along the curbside. The man at Arthur's feet, a scruffy fellow with alcohol-pinked cheeks and hazy blue-green eyes, gave a noncommittal grunt in response to Arthur's concern and threw an arm over his face. Arthur adjusted his umbrella with a sigh. Of all the nights to step on a crazy drunk..."Maybe you should get off the pavement, sir. You're going to get your outfit dirty." The Point Man continued as he placed one hand in his pocket, mentally noting the other's attire: a dark Armani jacket (Arthur restrained himself from outwardly showing any signs of displeasure at seeing it ruined by rainwater and undistinguishable mess); a half-buttoned, tattered shirt; a loose red tie, and—

Arthur froze, the corners of his mouth turning downward. No trousers. Just a pair of Union Jack-print boxers.

Wonderful.

"Sir, are you aware that you..." Arthur began, though he quickly began to backtrack his question. Of course Union Jack Boxers wasn't aware he wasn't wearing pants; the man was clearly drunk out of his mind. Arthur felt a headache coming on.

The man began groaning again. Arthur glanced down in interest, half expecting an apology or explanation.

"M'gonna hurl..."

And there was the perfect ending to a perfectly horrible day. Arthur avoided the mess with ease, nose crinkling at the smell, though the vaguely (very prominent, Cobb would say) OCD side of him was more disgusted with the man's disheveled appearance.

As the man sat back with one arm propping his body against the curbside and the other wiping his mouth off on his sleeve, it became disturbingly apparent to Arthur that being very drunk was the least of the other's worries; there, in the section directly below his ribcage, was a blatant knife-wound. The man patted it once, staring a few long moments at his fingers when they came back red.

The following reaction was far less dramatic than what Arthur had been expecting. "Bloody hell, they weren't kidding when they said they were gonna cut me." Union Jack Boxers glanced up to the dark-haired gentleman by his side and gave a crooked, tired smirk. "I thought they were kidding."

Arthur felt his throat constrict when he caught full view of the darkening patch that was a—supposedly rather large—slit in the man's torso. "You should get medical attention." He was suddenly glad for his ability to hide emotion and panic from his voice as Union Jack Boxers raised his eyebrows, almost grinning now. "Why, sir, what an excellent observation! Where do you go to university? Harvard?"

A nerve in Arthur's jaw twitched at the sarcasm. "Yes, I do, actually."

The drunk gave a choking laugh that ended in a somewhat pathetic wheeze, and he was forced to be silent for several minutes. When he recovered, however, he went right back to chattering. "Now there's a lucky guess on my part, isn't it? Me, myself, I went to—" Here he briefly broke off again, and Arthur instinctively flinched at the noise that followed; "—I went to Oxford. Dropped out my second year. Impressive, isn't it, darling? Wouldn't have expected that, would you?"

"No," Arthur answered truthfully, dryly, "I wouldn't have."

Union Jack Boxers erupted into coughs again. When they stopped, he extended a filthy, raw hand to Arthur, eyes squinting with the effort but lips still quirked into a sly smile. "The name's Eames. Just Eames. Mind helping me to the nearest medical institution, darling?"

Arthur's eyes went from Eames's hand to his knife-wound to that arrogant, unshaven face and back again to his hand. He thought about what Cobb would say. What Cobb would do. Or, to be more specific, what Cobb would do if there was no hospital around for a mile and his cellphone was suddenly absent from his pocket.

He immediately came to the conclusion that yes, if a drunk ex-Oxford student with a gaping knife-wound was asking for assistance, Cobb would help no matter what the circumstances. Arthur drew in the umbrella and placed it in his bag though he nearly winced when he felt the burning cold London rain soak into his new suit. "Alright."

"There's a good man." Eames muttered, humor still in his voice as Arthur (regretfully) slipped his tie from his neck and used the fabric as a makeshift medical patch. Eames staggered to his feet and threw an arm over Arthur's shoulders, lazily allowing his weight to go entirely onto the lanky Point Man—an act that Arthur suspected was due to both drunkenness and lack of social expertise.

Disguising his gags from the smell as clearing his throat, Arthur began to make his way back to the apartment. Eames was humming something now, something vaguely sounding like Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes and continued dragging the drunken Brit down the sidewalk, avoiding puddles as best he could.

"And what might your name be, love?"

Arthur, who had been concentrating on navigating his way home based purely on half-remembered directions Mal explained to him on their second day in London, turned his head to the right in order to face the man slung onto his shoulder. "Pardon?"

"Funny name you've got there, Pardon, but who am I to judge?"

The Point Man almost dumped Eames onto the road then and there. He would regret not doing so later. "My name's Arthur. Nice to meet you." The brunet deadpanned, glaring at a passing car as it sprayed dirty rainwater onto the pair, further ruining his new suit.

Eames started coughing again. Arthur flinched at the nerve-wracking sensation of blood staining his side and began planning the best course of action; Mal was good with First-Aid. When he dropped Eames off at the apartment, Mal could stitch him up and Cobb could call an ambulance so—"Arthur. Nice British name. Reminds me of m'dog." Eames chuckled weakly, his head bobbing when Arthur restrengthened his hold around his waist. The Point Man glanced over to the drunk with eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

Just as Eames was preparing to respond with yet another jibe, Arthur recognized the apartment and gave a sigh of relief. Slipping Eames off his shoulder, he pressed several buttons into the keypad on the wall. Cobb's voice immediately responded over the intercom, and no amount of static could deny the concern in his tone; "Arthur, is that you? Where have you been?" Arthur drew in a deep breath as Eames leaned on the building, alcohol no longer colouring his cheeks. In fact, his face had gone completely white. The Point Man cleared his throat. "Yes, Cobb, it's me. Listen, don't panic, but I've got a bit of an issue on my hands here." He glanced to Eames and frowned. "Its name is Eames."

Eames merely smirked, resting his head back on the apartment wall, far too tired for another snide remark. Arthur turned back to the intercom. "Bring him in, Arthur." Mal said almost immediately, her interest evident. Eames sauntered over, throwing his arm back around Arthur's shoulders and purposefully putting the Point Man off balance. "Thanks for this, darling. I'll pay you back sometime or other." The Point Man nodded as he climbed the stairs, muttering, "I should hope so" under his breath. Eames chuckled before becoming simple dead weight on Arthur's side.

Arthur still isn't entirely sure whether or not stepping on Eames that night had been a mistake. He is ninety percent sure that it wasn't.

* * *

**A/N**: This wasn't entirely intended to be an Arthur/Eames fic, but it...sort of turned out that way, which is weird because I am completely in love with Arthur/Ariadne at the moment. It was also written out of boredom and a last hurrah because school starts tomorrow. (Where did the summer go? ;A;)

Personal headcanon declares Eames went to Oxford but dropped out and Arthur has OCD. P.P.S, Eames is 22 and Arthur is 19 in this fic. Ignore the plotholes, if you would be so kind.

...Ugh, I totally rushed the ending on this. I always do that.

Well, reviews are my fuel, so please let me know what you think!


End file.
